


We Two, How Long We Were Fool'd

by elioliver



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Elio gets a nice girlfriend who is nice, Elio is shook, F/M, M/M, New York City, Professor Oliver, not this time you guys, you know how oliver usually tries to move on?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-04-18 04:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elioliver/pseuds/elioliver
Summary: Elio finds out the hard way that soul mates can't escape each other.





	1. We Swiftly Escape as Nature Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a poem by Walt Whitman.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio falls in love.

**Part One: We Swiftly Escape as Nature Escapes**

 

Laurel had a voice as lush and vibrant as a spring bouquet, and Elio loved her even before he liked her. They met in Elio’s very first class at Juilliard, a tiny little “welcome to college” orientation that lasted for an hour-and-a-half each Monday. There were only a dozen students, tiny prodigies who had wowed the admissions board so thoroughly that the directors corralled two groups of them together in classes meant to convince them to stay forever. They went around the room and introduced themselves, and Laurel was the only one of them who didn’t smile, but it didn’t matter. She practically glowed kindness from her casual perch in one of the rickety desks, perfectly poised and conversational. 

She was blonde, tall, and willowy, with a laugh like a bell and a name that floated off of Elio’s tongue as easily as his own. She wore a smock dress in light blue with a pair of well-worn brown sandals. He imagined her cutting through a park on the way to class, the perfect image of August in New York. There was a chunky, leather messenger bag slung over the back of her chair, and a pair of headphones were dangling precariously from one of the pockets. Her eyes were always carefully trained on the person speaking. She wasn’t staring, not exactly, but she was watching and listening; she cared about each introduction more than Elio had cared about anything in his entire life. Well, maybe not as much as he had cared about that one summer. 

“My name is Laurel Sullivan, and I went to high school at the Alabama School of Fine Arts, though I’m originally from Montreal.”  _ Mon-rey-al _ , she had said, and Elio helplessly leaned forward in his desk to catch her every word. “I’m a voice major, and my audition pieces were  from  _ Parsifal _ ,  _ L’Arianna _ , and Quilter’s Tennyson adaptations.” Elio knew enough about opera to understand how difficult some of those pieces were, and he felt misplaced pride surge up in his chest. The next letter Elio wrote to his mother included a request to please send him his copy of  _ Lamento d’Arianna _ , which he had left behind at the house in Florence. 

After class, Elio found himself under Laurel’s gaze, and he met her eyes without a flinch. She smiled at him, just a little, and Elio thought he might sing out with joy if he wasn’t so afraid of embarrassing himself in front of a voice major. They went on ten pseudo-coffee-study-dates before they slept together, and with Elio’s roommate having gone home to Connecticut for a three day weekend, they stayed in bed for two days, only leaving to answer the door for the Chinese food they ordered. Elio felt gloriously, victoriously, incredibly happy, and when his parents visited New York for Thanksgiving, Laurel stayed in the city for an extra day to meet them, delaying her flight to Birmingham so that she could dedicate herself to charming the elder Perlmans, who loved her like a daughter at first sight.

At winter break, they lingered in the city for one final weekend alone, huddled together in Elio’s dorm room with a supply of ill-gotten red wine and takeout. Elio went out into the biting cold to pick up a holiday gift for Annella, and when he returned, he found that Laurel had tidied up his desk, now reclining in a chair beneath the window and reading a collection of Walt Whitman. “ _Leaves of Grass_ ,” Elio read off the book’s green spine. Laurel closed her paperback and set it down beside her with a twinkle in her eye. “I know it isn’t particularly wintry, but he’s still my favorite,” she defended, pulling her knees to her chest and shivering at the chill that seeped in through the pane of glass. Elio placed his carefully gift-wrapped parcel in his half-packed suitcase and sat on the edge of his bed, his knees knocking against Laurel’s icy toes. “You’re freezing,” he accused. “You should get away from the window, get a blanket.” She shook her head and glanced over her shoulder at the snow coming down like grated parmesan over the sidewalk. “My flight leaves in five hours. I need to get showered and dressed, call a cab, all of that.”

Elio patted the place beside him on the bed, but Laurel didn’t budge. “Hey,” he said softly, bending to rest his forehead on her knee. “I don’t want you to leave, either.” She nodded, but she didn’t look entirely convinced. It was out of character for her. They were exclusive, they had always been exclusive. He only wanted her. He only loved her. There was no one else, not in New York or Italy, anyway. There was no one else she needed to know about. “Is Marzia coming into town for Christmas?” she asked. Elio blinked and lifted his head from her lap. “Yes, but you know we’re only friends,” he replied carefully. She nodded again, this time with a little less discomfort. “You know what,” she said suddenly, straightening in her seat. “I love you, and I’ve tried to be standoffish, because I know you’re talented and any conservatory, any person could snatch you up at any minute, but I love you. And I should’ve said it before, but I’m saying it now.”

She looked at him expectantly and Elio felt like his chest was on fire. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her temple. “I love you, too,” he promised. “I want you to come to Italy this summer, at least for a little while. I want us to make new memories together there. I want us to really be together. I want us,” he tried to continue, but Laurel cut him off. Soon they were balanced precariously on his twin bed, her face buried into his neck and one of his legs hitched over her waist. “ _Nous nous aimons_ ,” Laurel whispered, her tone imbued with disbelief. “We love each other,” Elio agreed.

And it stayed that way. Elio spent half of the summer with his parents at the villa, and another half in Alabama with Laurel, who was working with her mother at the Birmingham Civic Opera. Sophomore year came around and they were still all over each other, trading sweet nothings in the dead of night in Laurel’s tiny studio. Elio hadn’t actually been to his own apartment in four days when he finally ventured uptown to pick up his mail and do some laundry. Laurel had shooed him out of the building so she could get ready for her aunt to visit her from Quebec, and Elio was nearly out of toothpaste, so he kissed her in the tiny kitchenette and left Greenwich Village with a spring in his step.

He yanked open the security door near the street after four tries and jimmied his key into his tiny mailbox at the foot of the stairs before heading up to his flat. There was a decent stack of mail inside, and he felt guilty--he had told Kyle, his roommate, that he would always be the one to check the mail as long as Kyle dropped off their outgoing mail on his way to work--but Elio had clearly been slacking off. He shuffled through the stack as he wound his way up the stairwell and was relieved to see that most of the mail was either for him, or junk. Three flyers, one takeout menu, a telephone bill, a letter from Crema (a recipe from Mafalda), a letter from Paris (a book review from Marzia), two letters for Kyle, and a letter from Annapolis. _Annapolis_. His heart was thudding like a gong in his chest. Elio opened the door to his apartment mindlessly, dumping the mail in a bowl by the door and clutching the letter in his hands so hard he thought it might dissolve.

He slammed his bedroom door closed behind him and collapsed onto the bed, taking a moment to trace over every letter and image seared into the envelope. 

**ELIO PERLMAN**

**972 WEST 48TH STREET**

**APARTMENT 3B**

**NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10036**

He flipped it over and scanned the return address that was printed on a thin label sealing the envelope together.

**ATTN: OLIVER THAYER**

**ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE**

**60 COLLEGE AVENUE**

**ANNAPOLIS, MD 21401**

Elio hadn’t gotten a letter postmarked Annapolis since he’d moved to New York. He hadn’t thought about Oliver in five days, having fled to Laurel’s after having a particularly inappropriate dream involving two pieces of fruit and a yellow sheet-covered bed somewhere in northern Italy. Laurel didn’t know anything substantial about Oliver. Elio had mentioned the students who stayed with his family in Crema when they visited the villa that summer, only going into depth about the last three: Maynard (“In hindsight, I think he wanted to sleep with me.”); Oliver (“He was an asshole, so we got along well.” This cued Annella and Samuel to trade concerned looks across the table.); and Marina (“She had played piano as a child and had me give her lessons on the weekends.”) Laurel did know that Elio had fallen in love with someone a couple of summers ago, but Elio was sure that she assumed it was Marzia. Part of him wished that were true.

Elio ripped the envelope open and unfolded the note inside.

> _ Dear Elio, _
> 
> _ It’s been too long. I believe you were the one to send the last letter, so I can only blame myself for our lack of correspondence. I’m sorry. _
> 
> _ As you might’ve guessed, I’m still at St. John’s. I’m just teaching a few Freshman Seminars, and we’re currently studying  _ The Republic _ together. You and I clearly did not talk enough about philosophy when I was in Italy, because I have no memory of your opinion of Plato. I’d like to hear it.  Annapolis is no New York, but the Naval presence does make for a diverse group of residents. Everyday I meet someone new, a practice which is truly underappreciated. _
> 
> _ Elio, I’m writing to tell you that I have applied for a position at Columbia, and I’ve been hired for the spring. I’m going to move to the city in the middle of December, and I’ll start in January as an Assistant Professor in the Classics Department of Columbia University. Of course, I’m glad to be moving to a larger school and larger city, but I’m also glad to be in the same city as you.  _
> 
> _ I remember from my undergrad days how exhausted and busy Juilliard students are, but I’d still love to see you and get a coffee or some dinner when I get into town. I know you’ll be getting out of school for the holidays as I arrive, but I hope we can make it work. We could even try for January, depending on when you plan to be in Crema. _
> 
> _ I’m going to be moving into a place on the Upper East, and I’ll write to you with my new phone number once I’m settled in. For now, here’s my office extension and my home telephone.  _
> 
> _ I  _ ~~_ miss y _ ~~ _ hope you’re well. _
> 
> ~~_ Yours, Best, _ ~~ _ Yours, _
> 
> _ Oliver _

Elio read it again.  _ It’s been too long. I’m sorry. I’d like to hear it. I’m glad to be in the same city as you. Studio on the Upper East Side. I miss y. Yours, Best, Yours. Oliver. _ There was a lighter on his bedside table and for an instant, he thought about setting the paper on fire. He could watch it burn until it was just smoke and ash. He could drop the remnants into his toilet. He could flush. He could get a shower and do some laundry and transcribe the rest of that eclectic little German piece for Professor Knight's class and wait for Laurel at her apartment until she got back from her dinner. He could ask her to look at apartments with him, he could find a one bedroom big enough for Laurel to finally get a dog, and he could forget about Oliver for the rest of his life.

So that’s what he did. Not that he actually burned the letter--he sealed it with thin strips of scotch tape and put it in the bottom of a cardboard box. A cardboard box which he then filled to the brim with memories. Oliver’s photo from the application he sent to Italy in 1982. Oliver’s shirt. Oliver’s abandoned espadrille. A well-kept and rinsed off peach pit that had been collecting dust in his drawer. A worn copy of Armance. A half-empty pack of cigarettes. A neatly folded piece of paper, which, when unfolded, would reveal a challenge Elio had been trying to live up to since that summer.  _ Grow up. I’ll see you at midnight. _

Elio lifted a roll of packing tape from Kyle’s room and sealed the box shut. With careful penmanship, he jotted SUMMER 83 across the top. He stared at it for a moment and scratched it out. In its place, he wrote OLD TRANSCRIPTIONS and shoved the box below his bed. _This is it_ , he thought. _It’s over. It can all be over._

He went to Laurel’s that night with freshly laundered clothes and a new tube of Colgate, which they both agreed was the best kind of toothpaste. He picked up flowers and brought a bracelet he had been saving for her birthday, eager to hurl himself headfirst into their future together. He let himself in and deposited his bag and the bracelet on the couch, placing the flowers in a vase on her miniscule kitchen counter. 

Elio had only just finished washing his face and toying with his hair when she arrived back, a long-strapped purse slung over one shoulder as she dropped her keys in a bowl by the door and looked at him with surprise. “Hello,” she said with one of those rare smiles, kicking the door closed behind her and crossing the floor to meet him in a kiss that made his whole body relax. This was right. This was  _ good _ . 

His arms curled instinctively around her waist as their bodies melted into each other. Laurel leaned her head back just enough to look at him and see the purpose in his eyes. “Uh oh,” she murmured.  She turned her gaze toward the kitchen and saw the bouquet waiting for her. “Did you cheat on me, or something?” Her tone was serious but her eyes were full of mirth. She knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, and neither could she. What they had together was so good, and between that and their schoolwork, they barely had any time to see their friends, much less see other people. Elio’s eyes flickered to the couch, and with just one step, she was sitting at the end of the low sofa. 

Elio moved to stand in front of her, and as Laurel reached up to take his hands into her own, he dropped to his knees between her legs, reaching next to her for the slim box that held the bracelet. She looked at him with even greater surprise at this development and raised an eyebrow. “You really did cheat on me,” she said wryly. Elio smiled up at her and opened the box for her to see. “Will you move into an apartment with me?” He asked solemnly, his free hand creeping up her leg as she bent down to kiss him. She breathed an answer into his mouth between kisses, an answer that drew him towards her like a magnet until they were suddenly in her bed, the sound of skin on skin and ragged breaths scoring their night together.


	2. We Are Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laurel somewhat ruins Elio's life.

**Part Two: We Are Nature**

Things went as well as they could have possibly gone, which should have been Elio’s cue to expect the worst to come. They found an affordable one bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen, and used most of Laurel’s existing furniture to fill it. Elio covered a wall with bookcases, recruiting Kyle for one January afternoon to anchor looming shelves to the wall while Laurel went to a last minute meeting with her advisor. When she returned late in the afternoon, she found Elio standing on a rickety step ladder, loading the flimsy white shelves with eclectic paperbacks in alphabetical order. 

“I hope you left enough room for my copies of Faulkner,” she said, swinging her hips against the door to keep the cold from rushing into their blessedly warm home. He turned around to look at her with his nose wrinkled in disgust. “We should have a rule in this house, if I don’t bring up Spanish opera, then you don’t bring up Southern Gothic,” Elio said, balancing himself on the ladder’s middle rung and squeezing his third copy of  _ L’Etranger _ onto the shelf. Laurel placed her increasingly worn out bag on a kitchen chair and dropped to the floor with crossed legs to watch him organize his much-too-large library. 

“You know, you never even read  _ As I Lay Dying _ , and you would probably like it,” she argued from her spot on the rug, reaching out to the stack of books at Elio’s feet to flip through his heavily annotated copy of  _ Purgatorio _ . Elio paused in his organizing to wave a hand at her dismissively. “Please stop,” he said, his tone dripping with exaggerated misery. “I’m begging you to stop.” She rolled her eyes and laughed in response, inching back on the old carpet to lean against the wall with her book. They sat comfortably in silence for a while, the sound of Elio’s books hitting the shelf the only thing echoing in the apartment. Finally, when the clock on their kitchen wall read six o’clock on the dot, Elio climbed down from his scaffolding and collapsed into a chair at their tiny dining table. 

“How was your meeting with Dr. Panek?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat to stretch out his tired back. Laurel yawned for a second and tried to wipe the tiredness from her eyes, depositing the Dante on the ground next to her. “Yeah, well. He was himself, you know. He’s really excited about the Juilliard-Barnard-Columbia class sampling program they’ve been trying. He said he was going to put me in a class at Barnard, probably, something to fulfill my last humanities requirement. Apparently, all of his other students have loved it. Something about a fresh campus experience without even having to leave the city,” she explained. Elio twisted his neck and felt a satisfying crackle before he turned to look at her again.

“You know, I’m supposed to meet with Margaret tomorrow for my final advising. I’m curious if she’ll suggest the same thing,” Elio wondered aloud. "Surely not, right?" Laurel said. "I mean, you've done so much of your core requirement already, haven't you? How much non-instrumental do you have left?" Elio took a moment to rack his brain, trying to remember what Margie, his oddly casual advisor, had told him the last time he was in her office. He couldn't recall, so he leapt to his feet and walked towards their open bedroom door. "She made a carbon copy of my course requirements the last time I saw her. I'll go look," he called over his shoulder, earning a groan of dissent from Laurel.    
  
"Elio, it's not a big deal. You don't have to go get it, I know you're tired," she said to the empty room, slumping down lower to rest her whole body on the floor. Elio emerged from the bedroom looking triumphant and holding the paper in question in his hand. "I was curious to see anyway, it's fine," he chided, sinking onto the ground beside her and lifting the paper above his head so they could both read it. They skimmed it over quickly, Elio finally pointing out an empty checkbox near the bottom of the page. “It looks like that’s it. I just need one class,” he said, and Laurel poked him in the ribs, twisting to touch her forehead to his shoulder. “ _ Voilà _ , she said drowsily. 

“What do you want to take, then, if Margaret tells you that you can have your pick of any liberal arts class at Columbia?” Laurel asked, crossing and uncrossing her ankles in an effort to wake herself up. Elio stared up at the popcorn-textured ceiling and gave a half-shrug, mindful of her head against his collarbone. “I suppose something in the Classics department,” he mused. He curled his toes at the thought and quickly corrected himself. “No,” he said hastily. “Maybe an English course instead.” Laurel rolled closer to him, her torso pressed into his ribcage. She assented to his proposal with soft murmur. “What if you had to choose between linguistics and literature,” she asked, and Elio shifted imperceptibly so that he could free his arm and wrap it around her shoulders.  _ Courtesy of Philology 101 _ , he thought to himself, and suddenly he could smell the apricot juice and feel the light blue linen under his fingers.

“Literature,” he decided, silently chastising himself for the indulgent thoughts. “Which course do you think Panek will stick you in?” he asked her. He relished the feeling of her against him, an added source of warmth for the dark winter night that was beginning just beyond their door. She didn’t respond, so Elio jostled her lightly. Silence. He looked over at the kitchen and watched as the clock ticked toward 7:00. Elio slipped his arm out from under her and carefully settled her back on the ground. He tucked a pillow from the couch below her head and shoulders and tossed a throw blanket over her body before retreating to the kitchen to make dinner.

Upon investigating the contents of their refrigerator and pantry, he settled on an vegetable orzo soup that Mafalda had taught him over the holidays. Once the spinach, carrots, and pasta were simmering quietly on the stove, he sliced some bread and knelt on the ground beside his girlfriend, nudging her awake. Laurel used her elbows to shift upwards and glanced around with confusion. “Did I fall asleep on the ground? Wait, is it still Monday?” Her voice was thick with sleep but her eyes were wide and apprehensive. Elio stood up and offered her his hand. “It’s just past eight or so. C’mon, you need to eat something.” She took his hand and stood up, the blanket falling to her ankles. She sniffed the air and, upon realizing Elio had actually cooked dinner, kissed him softly before bending down to pick up the blanket and pillow. 

“I don’t deserve you, Perlman,” she said, traipsing over to the couch to replace the blanket and cushion while Elio ladled soup into two white bowls. Elio placed the bowls on the table and tossed four pieces of a cheap baguette into the wicker basket in the center. When Laurel moved to sit down, Elio pulled her chair out for her and pecked her on the forehead. “I know you don’t, but I can’t seem to get out of here,” he returned wryly, finally settling into his chair and diving into his soup. Laurel suppressed a broad grin and grabbed a piece of bread from the basket. “You’re hilarious,” she deadpanned, ripping off a chunk of bread and dipping it into the broth of her soup. Elio winked at her from across the table. “I know.”

Three days later, the semester finally began, and Elio was actually enjoying himself. Margaret had suggested he take a linguistics course at Columbia, but she settled on literature when she met his adamant refusal. “Jesus, Elio,” she had said, scratching out what was written on his scheduling form. “What, did your ex-wife cheat on you with a linguist or something? I’ve never had a student so intent on avoiding etymology.” He’d shrugged in response. “I’m an artist, Margie,” he lied by way of explanation. “I want to read literature, not nitpick at prefixes.” She glared at him over her desk. “If I have to hear one more of you kids tell me you’re an artist….” she trailed off. Elio left her office with a fresh schedule in his hand and a self-congratulatory attitude.  _ You did it, Elio _ , he thought.  _ You have successfully avoided Oliver. _

He met Laurel for lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays, both of them having their classes at Columbia just before 1pm twice a week. They would laugh and yawn together over a shared sandwich and two black coffees at a tiny cafe down the block from campus. They didn’t talk about their coursework, at least they tried not to. Sometimes they spoke about their shared professors at Juilliard if they were talking about music, but they were so overwhelmed with schoolwork that it seemed like overload to talk about classes and rehearsals outside of their study time. It wasn’t until they went out with their friends to a bar one Sunday night in April that Elio realized he’d made a crucial mistake.

Marlon Carraway had been in the same orientation class as Laurel and Elio, and the three of them became fast friends. Marlon was an exceptional guitar player and violinist, and he’d performed an original piece at a student showcase that spring evening, wowing the crowd into a standing ovation that brought him to tears. Their group of friends, the aforementioned trio along with Marlon’s boyfriend Todd and Laurel’s friend Joyce, decided to go out for celebratory drinks at a nearby bar where Joyce’s brother was an evening manager. Relieved at the prospect of not being carded, they walked down to the dilapidated hangout and settled into a corner booth with a round of beers. 

They’d been talking for a while when Elio finally found a break in his conversation with Todd and began to eavesdrop on Joyce’s discussion with Laurel, who was sitting next to him. “Well, I don’t know if I’m going to go. Are you?” Laurel was asking. Joyce ran her index finger up and down her mug absentmindedly before deciding on a response. “I don’t think so. I would if I had a date, but no. He’s so cute though, isn’t he? I’d be interested to find out who he’s married to.” Laurel leaned forward across the table and pressed her palms against the wooden top. “There’s no way he’s not married, right? Unless he’s gay I guess, and then he’s got to be in a relationship; he’s ethereal, for Christ’s sake.” Joyce gasped at the possibilities and they continued whispering until Elio pressed his shoulder into Laurel’s. “What are you talking about?” he asked, draining the last of his drink. Laurel turned and placed a hand on his thigh. “My Columbia professor is having all of his students over for an end of class discussion dinner. He wants it to be half-shop talk, half-dinner party. And I get a plus-one,” she told him, looking at him pointedly to emphasize his implied invitation. “Your Columbia professor?” he asked curiously. “I thought your liberal arts class was going to be at Barnard.”

Laurel shook her head. “I mean, it was supposed to be, but Panek wound up putting me in a tiny discussion course about Heraclitus and Parmenides because he heard the professor was impressive. It’s been pretty fun,” she explained. “I should warn you though, he’s really cute, so I might accidentally flirt with him at dinner,” she teased. “It doesn’t mean I love you any less.” Elio raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m not sure if I find that comforting at all,” he said, pulling her towards him by the waist and planting a kiss below her ear.

They left the bar after just one drink, strolling towards their building with fingers intertwined. Elio slowed as they passed by a window display of pianos, taking his time as he checked out the Steinway in the front corner with a selection of Bach resting on the music rack. Laurel pulled her hand away from him so she could lean against the window and look out at the cars passing by. Elio turned towards her and reached for her hand again, pressing it to his lips before he pulled her towards him. She collided with his chest and grinned up at the stars. “Careful there, Mr. Perlman. I’m tipsy and in heels, you can’t go tossing me around.” She leaned forward and kissed him, long and slow and sweet, before pulling away and taking off her shoes with a sigh. Elio laughed and took them out of her hands to carry them, intertwining their fingers again as they continued down the street.

“When is this class dinner of yours, again?” he asked, getting his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door to their humble apartment. Laurel hummed as she thought. “Ah, the 27th, I think,” she finally said. Elio crossed the threshold and ventured into the kitchen to look at the calendar that hung on the side of the fridge. He trailed his finger over the dates until he found the 27th. Eight days away. “A Sunday,” Elio said, glancing over at Laurel as she clicked the locks into place on their front door. Elio used a pen that had been resting on a notebook nearby and marked the day with a scrawl of his hand. He capped the ballpoint and tossed it in Laurel’s direction. She caught it and stuck her tongue out at him, placing the pen on the end table, near the sofa. 

“So,” Elio said, pouring them both a glass of water. “Do I need to study for this dinner, or?” Laurel accepted her glass with a soft laugh and lifted herself onto the formica countertop, taking a long sip and kicking her feet back and forth. “You know more than me about this stuff, I doubt you’d have to read anything to contribute to the conversation. You can look at my notes, if you want a quick summary of the material,” she offered, quickly dipping her cup into the sink next to her, refilling it with cold water from the running tap. Elio leaned forward and turned the water off. “Where are your notes?” he asked, turning his empty glass upside down to dry on the counter. 

She gestured toward the notebook whose pen Elio had unceremoniously stolen only moments prior. He hummed in interest and picked up the floppy, spiral-bound journal.  The cover was cardboard, cobalt blue with a blank space in the middle for a name. It was empty. He flipped the notebook open and arrived at the first page. “Syllabus Notes,” it read, in Laurel’s petite small caps that always glared out from the page like a troop of uniformed soldiers. “Le 17 janvier.” Elio smiled at the way she dated her papers in her  _ langue maternelle _ , a remnant of her French-Canadian grade school habits. She had always headed her papers that way, even when she moved to the southeast, which was typically the impetus behind the raised eyebrows she drew from her teachers. “CLX 290: The Rivers of Herac. And Parm.; Prof. Oliver Thayer.”


	3. Long Have We Been Absent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio eats and drinks, but is not quite merry.

**Part Three: Long Have We Been Absent**

Laurel had been too enthralled by her third glass of water to notice that Elio had quite nearly dropped her notebook on the floor of their kitchen, and when she finally looked up at him, he was already flipping to the journal’s third page, skimming over an outline of Heraclitus’s philosophy of the self. He closed the notebook when he felt her eyes on him. “So, Dr. Thayer’s pretty attractive?” Elio asked casually, dropping Laurel’s notes onto her lap. She nodded slowly, but looked at him with scrutiny. “You know I was just kidding about the flirting, right? He’s too old for me anyway.” She paused to dismount from the kitchen counter. She poked his chest lightly with her index finger and smirked. “Unless you’re asking for yourself, in which case, keep it in your pants, please. Cheating on me would be bad enough, but doing it with my hot professor would make it unbearable,” she said, moving out of the kitchen and towards their bedroom.

Elio laughed somewhat uncomfortably and called after her. “Calm down, I haven’t slept with a man in a long while,” he said, though he had no idea why he’d said it. What was he doing, spewing words all over the place, words about a man he was in love with, words about a man whose house he would be dining at in a week’s time? He wanted to slap himself in the face, but Laurel had pivoted in the doorway to look at him as if he were an extraterrestrial. “Well, gee, Elio, I would certainly hope so, since we met nearly two years ago and we’ve been kind of tied up ever since,” she replied, her gaze skating over him like a laser, trying to discern the source of his discomfort. Elio closed his eyes and played a Chopin in his head, feeling his body and face grow slack in an instant. When he opened his eyes, Laurel was nowhere in sight and he could hear the shower running. He put himself to bed with an extra glass of water and a sigh of relief.

A week and a day later, Laurel was straightening his thin black tie and pushing one of his curls away from his eye. Her whole body had been humming with nervous energy all day, and Elio had checked out three books on Buddha from the public library, none of which helped his current state in the least. He clenched and unclenched his fists as they jogged downstairs to hail a cab to Oliver’s apartment. When he’d written to Elio and said Upper East, he wasn’t exaggerating about the “upper.” The address was on the edge of East Harlem, near the park’s Duke Ellington statue. It made sense, Elio decided. Oliver needed space to stretch out, his family, his things. If he needed that much room, there was no way he could afford to live on an uppity side of town with just a professor’s salary.

The ride was thirty-five excruciating minutes, and they arrived at 7:55 on the dot, five minutes early. Laurel pressed the buzzer that had Oliver’s surname emblazoned on a small paper next to it, and before Elio knew it, they were knocking at his door. Elio found himself edging in front of Laurel, as if to shield her from what was about to happen. But nothing happened. A guy his own age opened the door and peered around him to look at Laurel. “Oh, uh, hey Laurel,” he said, swinging the door open wider. They stepped into the apartment and Elio swallowed nervously. “I’m Josh, I’m in Dr. Thayer’s class as well.” He looked at Laurel sheepishly. “I’m sorry I nearly forgot your name there, a second ago. I’m the worst at remembering that stuff.” He quickly brightened and extended his hand to Elio. “But anyway, she’s Laurel and you are…” he trailed off, looking to Elio for details. “Laurel’s date,” Elio joked, reaching out to shake Josh’s hand. Josh grinned. “Laurel’s date, huh. Atta boy,” he said with a laugh, gesturing over his shoulder to a dining room table where a few people were congregated. “Everyone’s getting ready to eat over there. Dr. Thayer’s in the kitchen dealing with a rogue ice maker.”

Elio’s eyes widened. This was his chance. “Well, I’ll just go help him, then,” Elio volunteered. Laurel was thoroughly confused. “Don’t you want me to introduce you?” she asked, skeptical. Elio shook his head. “No, no,” he assured her. “I’ll just tell him I’m your date. I used to help fix the ice machine in Crema all the time, it will only take a minute,” he promised. Laurel nodded and kissed him chastely on the cheek before drifting towards her classmates as Josh poured himself a drink. Elio glanced around the apartment. The dining room was just beyond the front door, and the living room just past that. The kitchen, he could see, was to his right, the door held open by a tiny metal latch. Elio crept toward the door and let his fingers skim over the rough wood. With a deep breath, he undid the hooked latch and entered, letting the door fall closed behind him.

Oliver turned around at the sound. Silence. “Jesus Christ,” Oliver finally said, his whole body paralyzed in the light from the open freezer. Elio’s heart fluttered impatiently. He should say something, but what? Oliver’s eyes were all over him, combing through his grown-out hair, inspecting his shirt and tie, polishing his shoes. “Jesus Christ, Elio,” Oliver repeated, this time reaching into the freezer for ice. He rounded the kitchen island between them and ripped a paper towel from the roll, wrapping it around the frozen mass in his hand. Unceremoniously, he jerked Elio’s head backwards and held the ice to his nose. Elio looked down at the cold, wet blob beneath his nostrils. It was dyed crimson.

“Shit,” Elio said, pinning the ice to his face with two fingers and slipping away from Oliver. He tilted his head back and slid down the wall, to the floor. Oliver quickly locked the kitchen door from inside. Oliver knelt down next to him, and Elio finally looked at him, really looked at him, and found that he looked almost the exact same as he had three years ago. Ceruleans pools of glass for eyes. Fair hair that was slicked back with a soft touch of gel. His skin was much paler than it had been, but the tone was still darker than Elio’s alabaster complexion. He had forgotten how to breathe, now that Oliver had his hand against the wall, right next to Elio’s cheekbone. Oliver was hovering over him, examining the bloody cloth under his nose. Oliver lifted his hand brought it to the miserable, melting wad of paper and ice, lifting it away slightly and nodding with relief when he saw that the nosebleed had stopped.

He stood up and deposited the ice in the trash, then turned and looked at Elio’s crumpled form on his blue-tiled kitchen floor. “Elio,” he said, fingers curling around the edge of his kitchen counter, knuckles turning as white as the cabinets below him. “Why are you here?” he asked, lowering his voice and wincing at the sight in front of him. Elio pushed his hand against the wall behind him and rose to his feet, glancing down at his white shirt to make sure that it was bloodless. There was a drop of pink tinged water on his collar, but that wasn’t anything he couldn’t explain away. “I’m here for dinner,” Elio said evasively, pulling at his shirt to ensure that there were no other stains. He moved toward the freezer that Oliver had been prodding at when he arrived and stuck his head in. A block of poorly made ice was stuck in the chute, impeding the rest of the cubes from coming down into the awaiting bowl. Elio reached in and knocked his fist against the mass. No movement.

He looked closer and tried to let the chill calm him down. “You don’t happen to have an ice pick lying around, I guess. Maybe a hammer and a good knife,” Elio mused into the cavern of the icebox. He turned around and found Oliver right behind him, staring at him with a thousand questions behind his eyes. Elio took a deep breath. _My girlfriend is in your class_ , that was all he had to say. But he hated the way that sounded, girlfriend, like he was an elementary schooler with a crush on a kid at the playground. Lover was trying too hard. _Petite amie_ was weird, Oliver didn’t speak French. Laurel wasn’t his fiancée, though Mafalda seemed to hope she was. “ _La mia ragazza_. She’s in your class. I’m her date tonight,” Elio said. Short sentences, he reminded himself, because once he started he just wouldn’t stop. And oh, God, this had to stop.

For a moment, Oliver seemed to have given up on the cool exterior he put on in Italy, and Elio could read him like bold-faced billboard. He was sad and angry and disappointed. Then it was all gone, and Oliver stepped back to lean against the kitchen island, opening two drawers next to him that held tools and cutlery. He handed Elio the knife and hammer handle-first. “You shouldn’t have come here,” Oliver finally said, causing Elio to drop the knife and hammer into the freezer before he slammed the mallet head onto his thumb. “It isn’t fair to me,” Oliver continued, crossing the kitchen floor to get glasses out of his cabinet. Elio felt something spark inside of him and he pivoted to face Oliver’s back. “It isn’t fair to you?” he questioned indignantly. “And what, you asking my permission to get married was fair to me?”

Oliver turned around, seething. “I never married her,” he hissed. “And I wrote to you when I got the job at Columbia. I told you I wanted to see you again, I never mentioned my family, I told you to call me at home. You never wrote back. What the _fuck_ , Elio? Why are you here?” Elio slammed his hand into the side of the icemaker and heard the problematic glacier dislodge. “I told you why I’m here,” Elio said, reaching down to fish the gnarled ice out of the tray. He chunked it into the sink and wiped his damp hands against his slacks. Oliver groaned and moved to the freezer to coax fresh ice from the machine. “Your… whatever she is being in my class is not a reason to show up. You and I both know you didn’t have to come.” Elio flinched. Of course he had to come. What else was he supposed to do?

Oliver switched off the ice maker and pulled the full bowl of ice out of the freezer, closing the door behind him. “You could have stayed home,” he said softly. _I thought I should see you_ , Elio wanted to say. He knew what the response would be. _Because you thought you should see me?_ He skipped ahead. “I wanted to see you.” _Because I wanted you to know_ , he might’ve added, but there was a noise at the door. The door, dark wood thinly painted white, was being jostled, and Elio heard a voice from the other side. “Elio? Are you still in there?” Laurel called. Elio didn’t even realize the door had been locked, though he was deeply grateful for the warning it gave him. Oliver abandoned the ice and glasses to go unlock the door, and Elio took his place at the counter.

“Laurel,” Oliver said, intrigued by the unexpected development. Laurel blushed under his gaze. “Hey professor,” she said lightly, peering past him to look at Elio, who turned and gave her a smile. “Sorry, it must’ve accidentally locked behind me,” Elio explained, trying to keep from turning on Oliver accusingly. Laurel nodded in acceptance, though her eyes flashed to the latch on the inside of the kitchen door. It was hook and eye, no way to lock the door without physically connecting the two sides. Oliver moved out of the way so Laurel could enter the kitchen, latching the door open before she entered. “Ah, so Elio is your date, Laurel?” Oliver asked, pulling two shallow pans of chicken breasts out of the oven and balancing them on the trivets that he’d placed on the island counter. Laurel looked between the two men with apparent bemusement in her eyes. “Uh huh,” she assented. “Did you not introduce yourself when you came in, Ellie B-” she tried to ask, but Elio cut her off when he anticipated the nickname.

“No, I guess I didn’t,” Elio said quickly, placing ice into water glasses as if it were a timed Olympic sport. Oliver, a slightly vindictive smirk on his face, glanced over at Laurel. “Elio and I haven’t seen each other in a long while, Laurel. I once interned for his father over a summer,” Oliver explained, and Elio clenched his eyes shut, remembering his words from a week ago. _I haven’t slept with a man in a long while_. But Laurel was too busy putting together other pieces of the puzzle to notice. She moved closer to Elio, placing her lips near his ear as she feigned helpfulness with a pitcher of water. “Oliver the asshole? Seriously?” she queried under her breath. Before Elio could respond, she was back below his earlobe while she topped off a glass. “You never mentioned he was a goddamn Adonis.”

She left the kitchen with several cups in tow, and Elio heard the chorus of gratitude and surprise that met her in the dining room. Oliver finished plating the ten chicken breasts and left the two trays in the sink, pulling a sheet of roasted green beans and asparagus from his oven shelf. Elio found the two bottles of wine that were sitting in the corner and he stepped back to look in the cabinets for wine glasses. “Are you prepared for tonight?” Oliver asked, and Elio wanted to take his words a thousand different ways. He nodded curtly and began to pull down Oliver’s collection of stemless goblets. “I’ve read your book God knows how many times. I assume that means I’m up to speed.”

Oliver spread a thin glaze over the vegetables and began loading the plates with them. “It’s certainly a start,” Oliver said. Laurel came back through the kitchen door to retrieve the rest of the waters and Oliver looked over his shoulder at Elio. “Just take the wine and the glasses out to the table,” he said dismissively. Laurel exited, precariously cradling four glasses in her arms. Elio picked up both bottles of wine, pausing once he reached the doorway. He parted his lips to speak, but found that he had no words. Oliver placed the last of the vegetables on the plates and stared at Elio openly. As soon as Oliver opened his mouth, Elio turned and left the kitchen, wine in tow.

The dinner was surprisingly good, and Elio was impressed at the quality of Oliver’s cooking; his taste in alcohol hadn’t gotten any better, however, and Elio drank two glasses of water to avoid the mismatched Chianti. Laurel, on the other hand, had three generous glasses of wine on top of the swill of bourbon Elio had yanked out of her hand as they left the apartment, and was quite… _superfluous_ by the time everyone retired to the living room for a brief discussion. Elio was the only date in attendance, and it wasn’t until they were settling into their places in the den that he realized that at least six of the eight students present were here because they wanted to sleep with Oliver. He was torn between bubbling over with pride and being incensed with jealousy. He opted out of both and instead brooded over his glass of wine in an armchair in the corner of the room.

“Elio, what do you think?” Laurel was asking, and Elio lifted his head and looked around the room at the throng of people who were expecting his answer. “What do I think about what?” Elio returned, somewhat embarrassed by his accidental black out. From his place against the mantle, Oliver smiled rigidly. “What do you think about the meaning of Plato’s interpretation of Heraclitus?” Josh reminded him, finishing his glass and leaning back into Oliver’s couch. Elio blinked, flipping through his mental filing cabinets for the correct answer. The one that would make Oliver flinch.

“Some would say that the meaning of the river flowing is not that all things are changing, so that we cannot encounter them twice, but that some things stay the same only by changing,” Elio said, his eyes trained defiantly on Oliver. “I would argue that the more superficial interpretation also has merit. He himself said, unequivocally, ‘into the same rivers we step and do not step, we are and are not.’ The fluctuation of the water is existentially ahead of its time. It is irrelevant to discuss flux as a necessity of the static if Heraclitus is praising action over inaction. To step into the water is to live, to remain on the bank is to die. It becomes Kierkegaardian in ways that I find rather compelling,” Elio said, lifting his glass to his lips.

Oliver’s jaw tightened. “And what would you say to his argument that much learning impedes understanding, if you posit that Heraclitus believes action is the key to all of our problems?” he asked, pushing off of the fireplace to examine the spines lining his bookshelf. Elio swallowed and tried desperately to summon all of the knowledge he had regarding the Pre-Socratics, which was not much. “To that, I would ask why we don’t consider an investigation of the _kosmos_ to be action. Heraclitus believed that wisdom is possible, he believed he was the wisest of them all. He just didn’t do it by learning,” Elio argued, the palms of his hands on fire. Oliver shook his head. Elio expected another onslaught of questions, but Oliver changed the subject quickly, moving on to some obscure trivia about Xenophanes he’d read in a journal that morning. Elio retreated back into his Chianti with the ghost of a smile on his face.


	4. But Now We Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio is caught between two lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Elio listens outside of his apartment door,  
> [ this ](http://foolsroad.tumblr.com/post/161534869993/my-sweet-lord-playing-from-another-room) is what he hears. 

**Part Four: But Now We Return**

Elio didn’t volunteer to help Oliver put the glasses away, and he couldn’t tell if Oliver was upset about it or not. A trio of girls who had arrived together left as soon as Dr. Thayer launched into Xenophanes, their friend with a car having already circled the block twice while waiting for them. Josh immediately began gathering up plates from the table when Oliver signalled that the night was coming to a close, and Laurel teamed up with a friend to tidy up the dining room, despite their esteemed professor insisting that they were guests in his home. When she finished unrolling the table runner across the lacquered wood, Laurel cornered Elio near the fireplace with a concerned look. 

“I cannot believe you,” she said, arms firmly at her sides as she tried not to gesticulate. “ _ Tu ne m’as pas dit que le nom de famille d’Oliver, c'est Thayer _ .” Elio looked over her shoulder at the two girls sitting in at the dining table, both of them chatting ambivalently. “ _ Est-ce que personne ne parle français _ ?” he asked uneasily, which only drew an annoyed look from Laurel. She took a step closer to him, her nose nearly touching his. “Elio, I don’t care if they can overhear us,” she whispered. “I want to know why you didn’t tell me. I know that you knew.” Elio tried to relax his shoulders, but it only seemed to make him feel more tense. He shook his head. “I didn’t want it to be weird, Laurel; I wasn’t even sure he would remember me!” Elio exclaimed, backing into the fireplace behind him when he saw Josh and Oliver emerge from the kitchen.

“Hey lovebirds,” Josh said. “Want to split a cab downtown?” Elio reached for Laurel’s hand and squeezed before she could answer for them. Oliver’s eyeline shifted down to their intertwined fingers, and Elio was frustrated to find that his expression was characteristically unreadable. “I was actually thinking we would walk,” Elio replied, and Laurel swivelled to give him a look of indignation. “I can’t walk for miles in these shoes, Elio,” she said, gesturing to the new pumps she’d bought for the occasion. “I’ll split the cab with Josh if you don’t want to.” Elio looked at her helplessly. There was no way in hell that he was going to sit through another thirty minute cab ride, this time with his girlfriend upset with him and some stranger politely asking him questions about school and philosophy and, God-forbid, Professor Thayer. 

Elio hovered in between possible responses, and just as his silence was becoming unbearable, Oliver spoke. “Why don’t I walk you four,” he gestured to the girls sitting at the dining table behind him, “down to the street, and I’ll catch up with Elio here for a while.” He winked at Laurel, whose cheeks grew flushed in an instant. “I’ll walk Elio to the subway and send him your way later on, if that’s alright, Miss Sullivan.” Elio wondered if he called all of his students by their surnames in class. If he closed his eyes, he could hear Oliver’s voice curl around the words “Mr. Perlman,” and it made his skin crawl.

Laurel left the apartment with the others, leaning into Elio’s form to whisper in his ear.  _ “Nous n’avons pas fini, mon amant _ ,” she said causticly, punctuating her parting words with a poke in the ribs that was about as gentle as a kiss from Judas. Oliver, true to his word, walked them all out, and Elio was left alone to stare at the dregs of his wine and the barely noticeable, watered-down bloodstain that freckled his collar. He should leave. He should wait at the end of the hall for Oliver to return, and once he is safely inside, he should run down the stairs and not look back, Elio decided. Instead, he traipsed into the kitchen and opened up several cabinets in the pursuit of stronger spirits.

He was curious as to what it was that finally made Laurel so upset. His first instinct was the lock that Oliver had been annoying enough to lock. It wasn’t the kind of thing that just snapped shut on accident. Did she see it and realize? Did she hear the venom in Elio’s voice when he was talking about Heraclitus? He should’ve abstained from responding. He should have let his eyes widen just a little; he should have looked around the room, embarrassed; he should’ve said, “Oh, well, I’m not too sure,” and left it at that. He couldn’t believe how stupid he had been, coming here to punch a self-destruct button. Maybe she was just drunk. Maybe he was just drunk.

He’d just found a bottle of armagnac, which impressed him, when he heard Oliver unlock, open, close, and lock the door. Elio emerged from the kitchen with the bottle in his hand, compelling Oliver to stride towards him, lift it out of reach, and replace it into the cabinet. Elio trailed after him, highly disappointed and far too sober to be talkative. “I would typically tell you to help yourself, but I just served wine to a large group of underaged students, and I think I’ve hit my quota for that sort of thing tonight,” Oliver said, exasperated as he wandered into the living room and sat on the couch. Elio followed him and reclined at the other end of the sofa. 

“What percentage of guests do you think wanted to sleep with you tonight?” Elio asked after a silence, running his index finger around the pad of his thumb nervously. “No,” Oliver replied curtly. “We’re not doing that. We’re not being coy. We’re not talking around ourselves.” Elio raised his eyebrows without even realizing, and he wondered if that would be too coy for Oliver’s new, elevated standards of conversation. “You’re the one who invited me to stay behind,” Elio reminded him, but Oliver was unfazed. “You’re the one who showed up in the first place,” he returned, and they found that they were at an impasse for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“I’m sorry to hear that you broke off your engagement,” Elio said, his eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but at the man beside him.  _ We’re not talking around ourselves. _ What does that even mean? What was he supposed to say?  _ You left me alone in Italy and I was in seclusion for weeks. I received admission from Juilliard and wrote to you and you never replied and I thought of dying. I went to Washington, D.C., with a friend one spring break to tour museums and I thought I saw you from a distance and I ran to restroom and became ill. I love you and I hate you and I’m not sure that you have ever done anything but hate me. I’m not sorry you broke off your engagement, and I cannot articulate exactly why. _

“No, you’re not,” Oliver replied, turning to look at Elio so that his hair glinted brightly and his lips seemed softer. Elio clenched his fists and sighed. “Aren’t we both supposed to be happy?” he asked, staring straight ahead at the books and candles that dotted Oliver’s mantle. Oliver removed his suit jacket, leaving him in a pair of black trousers and a white dress shirt that reminded Elio of a Gucci ad he’d seen on the back of some old  _ Vogue Italia _ . “I’m not sure that I’m ready to do that without you, not yet,” Oliver admitted quietly, reaching down beside him for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “I can’t even do a good job of pretending to be happy for you, which doesn’t exactly bode well.”

Elio hummed absent-mindedly and accepted the cigarette that Oliver offered him. “We fucked up,” Elio muttered, reaching for the lighter. Oliver just nodded. "I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do," Elio said, his voice beginning to match the miserable look on his face.  _ Was this not talking around it? _ Oliver stretched out his hand and touched the tips of Elio’s fingers with his own. Elio expected an electric jolt, but he found instead a crushing wave of heat that engulfed his entire being. It felt like his soul had been set on fire.

“I think I should have stayed in Maryland,” Oliver said quietly, his eyes skirting up Elio’s torso and landing to meet his gaze. He took a drag from his cigarette and slipped his fingers into Elio’s hand to trace the lines of his palm. “I think you’re good right where you are,” Elio said, the lids of his eyes falling closed while he memorized the feeling of Oliver’s skin on his. His breathing was stuttered and his heart was beating only faintly. What was happening? Why was this happening? His lips were moving of their own accord, he was speaking words that he shouldn’t even be thinking, and it felt so good and so clean and so white-hot and bright that he could scream from simultaneous pleasure and pain. “Are you really angry with me, Elio?” he asked, his own name falling from his mouth as naturally as his fingers finding keys on a piano, as naturally as reaching for a lightswitch along the wall at the house in Crema. “I’m angry with myself,” Oliver replied, and Elio’s eyes blinked open to look at him. 

“I think I should have stayed in Italy,” Oliver said brokenly, and Elio realized that his perfect blue eyes were wet. Elio reached up, a nearly out of body experience, and dried a tear from Oliver’s face with the side of his thumb. The motion had caused him to arrive in middle of the couch, and he lowered his cigarette into the coffee table ashtray and pulled Oliver’s out of his fingers to dispose of it. He grazed the slope of Oliver’s arms and shoulders with open hands and reminded himself to breathe; Elio was bent over Oliver, balancing on his knees on the slick toffee-colored leather. Oliver’s lips were the same shade of rose that they had been in the summer, and Elio traced his index finger over them, Oliver opening his mouth in a way that threw him back in time. Oliver looked as if he was afraid to move, but he raised his hand to touch Elio’s hair, acclimating to the new length. 

“If I kiss you, will it all be over?” Elio breathed faintly, his hand sliding down to cup Oliver’s jaw. Oliver shook his head and mouthed a response, but Elio remained bowed above him, both of them ready to consume each other whole. Elio closed his eyes and saw himself at a table in Italy; a transcription pad spread out in front of him, Walkman buzzing lightly from the sound whirring through his headphones. He could see Oliver reclined near the pool, sunglasses on his chest, shirt unbuttoned. His blonde hair was spun gold in the August sun, his face as placid as the lake on a quiet evening. But then Elio turned to look at the house, and in the doorway, talking to his mother, there was someone else, a figure shrouded in blue-grey shadows. The figure turned around, and he saw it was Laurel, wearing that blue dress and those scuffed shoes, brown bag slung over her shoulder. Golden hair that was lighter and longer, a face with softer angles, a voice that soared over arias.

Elio’s jaw fell slack a little, and he shifted backwards just as Oliver moved into him. He nearly tumbled off of the couch, quickly slamming his feet into the floor and awkwardly dusting off his shirt and jacket. Oliver stared up at him with his eyes on guard and his shoulders raised. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Elio said hastily. Oliver moved to the edge of the couch and swiped his palms over his slacks. “You don’t even have my telephone number,” Oliver replied, his brows furrowing apprehensively. Elio shook his head and looked around pointlessly, his whole body numb and vibrating and absolutely on edge. “I’ll call,” he promised, turning on his heel and exiting the apartment as quickly as he could.

He started walking down the street, toward the subway station, but with his whole body on autopilot and every piece of him shaking and fizzing, he turned on his heels and sprinted through Central Park until he thought would throw up from exertion. He found a park bench and leaned against it without an ounce of air in his lungs. This was not happening. This had to be some kind of terrible, terrible phantasmagoria. Was Oliver going to kiss him before he left? He was, he definitely was. Oh,  _ God _ . Why had he left? He had to leave. He needed to go home. Elio looked up and around and found that he was nearing the edge of the park. He was close to Joyce's apartment, which was on top of a diner, and a significant part of him hoped that Laurel was there. Maybe she was eating ice cream and drinking decaf and telling Joyce that he had been acting odd all night. Then Joyce would say something like "Elio loves you, Laurel," and Elio could put off a doomed conversation for another night.    
  
He wasn't all that sure if he wanted to bother with having the discussion at all. He did love Laurel, didn't he? He loved her when he was young; he loved her in Italy and New York. He loved her in the South. He loved her in Québec, where they'd gone for a weekend at the end of March. He loved her in the spring and in every season that followed. He loved her in the winter, when her hair darkened and she wore too many scarves all at once. He loved her in the summer, when the sun gave her highlights that made her resemble Oliver from above, when Elio awoke in the morning and saw her head tucked under his chin. He couldn’t think of a time when he loved Oliver, only a feeling. He loved him when he was awake and when he slept. He loved him. He loved him more than Marzia and more than Laurel and more than Maynard and Marina and all of the others who came before them. Elio picked up his feet and continued to trudge east with an anvil on his chest.  _ I love him; I love him; I love him. _

When Elio arrived back at his place, he could hear noise inside, and he pressed his ear to the door to listen. It was music, the bass low but happy, and a guitar whistling over the orchestration. He heard a soft voice chime in at the chorus and sighed. This was never a good sign. He should turn around. He should go back to fuckin’ Harlem, anything but be right here at this moment. He swung open the door to the apartment and tried to keep his expression pleasant. “George Harrison, huh?” he asked jovially, or at least as jovially as he could, and he was met with the icy silence that he expected.

Laurel was lying down in the floor of the living room, spread-eagled and dazed, staring up at the ceiling and shrouded in eerie calm. “I’m meditating,” she lied, her eyes locked onto the light fixture hanging over her head. This is what she always did when she was upset. If the turntable in the corner was spinning  _ Pet Sounds _ or  _ All Things Must Pass _ or  _ Rigoletto _ , it was bad news, and the lower she was to the ground, the worse it would be. Elio wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her actually lie down on the carpet before, and the sight of it terrified him more than he had anticipated.

“You would’ve been upset with me if I hadn’t said goodnight before I went to bed,” he argued softly, closing the door behind him and cowering slightly behind their old wingback armchair, his hands clutching at the worn fabric. When she didn’t respond, he tried again. “Why are you meditating at two a.m., Laur?” She pushed herself up to her elbows and stared at him with the same apathetic intensity she’d been directing at their upstairs neighbors. “Why are you coming home from my professor’s apartment at two a.m., Elio?” she responded, unflinching and unmoved, moored to the floor’s center by an anchor that Elio couldn’t see. “You are drunk,” he said plainly, and he knew he wasn’t wrong.

“Well, you don’t love me, so I guess we both have our faults.”

Elio found himself genuinely offended. “How could you think I don’t love you? How could you think that?” he asked, although he wasn’t all that certain that he wanted to hear the answer. She stared back at him with unwavering, glassy eyes. “You’re not  _ in _ love with me, then.  _ Pardon _ .” Elio moved around the armchair and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. She stared right through him in a way that made him deeply uncertain, and when he reached for her, she flinched. “I love you so much, Laurel,” Elio said, his voice breaking around the words. He lowered himself to the ground beside her, the front of his body pressing into roughen carpet, his head turned to the side to keep her gaze. She dropped from her elbows and mirrored him.

“Why did you let me believe it was Marzia?” she asked, her arms lifting over her head to reach for a bottle of water. She uncapped it and took a sip before sliding it towards Elio, who picked it up and twirled it back and forth in his hands. “I didn’t want you to know what happened. I didn’t want to remember,” he said. Elio pushed his cheek further into the carpet and felt a burn as the fibers made tiny engravings in his skin. Why was he doing this? Why was this happening? He felt slick tears force their way to the corners of his eyes and slide down his face, the tracks angling down and across the bridge of his nose. He dropped the bottle of water back onto the carpet, where it bounced and sloshed before resting between them. Laurel made no move to dry his tears.

She twisted again to rest on her back and glare up at the ceiling. “I’m going to stay at Marlon and Todd’s tonight,” she said half-heartedly. “I’ll be back after my classes tomorrow, and I would really rather not see you here when I come back.” She clasped her hands over her chest and closed her eyes to prevent a leakage of salt water. Elio sat up and looked down at her with his heart in two pieces. “You don’t want to try and fix this?” he asked, worry and incredulity coating his words. She flipped onto her side and hid her face from him.

“ _ You _ don’t want to try and fix this.”


	5. We Have Circled and Circled Till We Have Arrived Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio lives.

When Elio woke up the next morning, his apartment was eerily quiet. He showered and dressed, and without any classes until eleven, he sat down at the kitchen table and made a phone call to the landlord. It rang two, three times before Alice, his wife, answered. Elio requested to speak to Mr. Holbrook, and he listened to the clang of dishes in the sink over the phone line as she apparently exited the kitchen and called out for her husband. “Hello,” Holbrook said gruffly, and Elio hoped that he hadn’t woken the man up. “Hey, Mr. Holbrook, it’s Elio Perlman, from your building on 55th,” Elio said, sitting up in his chair and trying to deepen his voice a little. “Oh, boy, oh boy,” Holbrook said uneasily. “What can I do for you, Elio?”

Elio shifted in his seat before deciding to stand. “Ah, I live in apartment 4B, with my girlfriend, and it would seem that we won’t be living together anymore. I was just wondering what kind of options we might have for breaking our lease.” Elio heard papers shuffling at the other end of the line as Holbrook sipped at what Elio presumed was his morning coffee. “Alright, okay. You’ve got a calendar-type lease, not a school-year lease, son, so you’re looking at a $400 fee unless you can find someone to take your place,” Holbrook finally replied. Elio brought his hand up to his cheek and slid it down his skin. This wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, he guessed, though he really knew nothing about rent or leases or finding another apartment.

“Alright, thank you, Mr. Holbrook. I may call you back tomorrow with more details,” Elio said. He covered the receiver with a hand when he heard a knock at the door. Holbrook was beginning to offer his condolences for Elio’s relationship with “that little blonde singer” when Elio interrupted him. “Thanks again, sir, but I’ve got someone at the door. Hmm. Yes, you too. Alright.” Elio rested the phone back in its cradle as the person knocked a little louder. He pulled a piece of lint from his t-shirt and opened the door without bothering to check the peephole.

Laurel barrelled in and launched herself at his chest with tears in her eyes. “Elio,” she said tiredly. “Elio, I’m so sorry. I drank… I drank _trop_ —too much last night, I shouldn’t have said all of that stuff to you, it’s just, you know, I mean…” she trailed off helplessly and gestured towards a box sitting beside the couch that Elio hadn’t noticed last night. “I opened that while you were at Oliver’s, just because, I don’t know, sometimes I like to read your transcriptions, but then I opened it and it was personal stuff and I looked and I shouldn’t have and I got upset and I had no right to be upset.” Elio stared at the cardboard cube sitting across the room, blue fabric sticking out of it at an awkward angle, and he couldn’t breath. “I read too much into it, Elio, and I was in a bad place when you got home, and I just gave up.”

Laurel put her hands at his jaw and turned his head to face her. “Elio, c’mon. I’m so sorry. I invented this whole story in my head with the stuff in the box, and I just, I had another drink and I got so angry, and I’m sorry. I don’t even remember what you said to me, I was such an inexcusable mess. _Désolée, mon amour, navrée_.” Elio gulped and looked down at her wide-eyed. He staggered backwards for a couple of steps and stopped in the middle of the room; Elio gestured wordlessly to the couch, and Laurel sat down hesitantly. Her eyebrows were bowed in concern and she looked up at him with a small frown. “Elio—”

“Laurel, please stop,” Elio requested sharply, backing into the armchair across from her and sitting down, clumsy and awkward. She’d clearly run from Marlon’s this morning, her hair damp and wind-blown, still wearing what he’d found her in last night. “Laurel, I—,” Elio said. He felt the saltwater drip onto the top of his thigh before he realized how hard he was crying; it felt like a levee inside of him had broken. Laurel leaned back on the couch and looked at him apprehensively, her face falling from slightly hopeful to completely uncomfortable. _Shit_. He couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t breathe; breathe, breathe, breathe. “I wasn’t that drunk, was I?” Laurel asked, disappointment curling around every syllable. Elio ran his palms over his skin and looked up at her with a damp face. “No. You weren’t that drunk, Laur.”

She stood to her feet and looked out the window, her bottom lip wedged firmly between her teeth. “Oh my god.” She craned her neck back and glared at the ceiling. “Jesus. I need the Beach Boys to get through this shit.” Elio looked over at her position near the record player and let out a sharp chuckle. “Please don’t,” he pleaded sardonically, wiping water away from his eyes. She burst into laughter without wanting to, an explosive response that left her clutching her stomach on the arm of Elio’s chair until both of them were caught in neurotic hysterics that neither could explain.

Nearly an hour later, Laurel found herself lying across Elio’s lap, suspended in the air by the arms of the chair and gazing up at the dust-ridden ceiling again. “Uh,” she began uncomfortably. “Are you going to go… talk to him, or something?” She squirmed in her position and Elio placed his hands over her ribs to readjust her back over the narrow armrests. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said numbly, absentmindedly running his fingers down the length of her arm. Laurel swallowed and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Please don’t do that,” she muttered, refocusing her eyes on the upper floor. Elio withdrew his hand as if she were a hot stove top. “Sorry,” he returned.

“You should talk to him. Actually, please talk to him. Don’t… _fucking_ ruin our life together just to sit around and sulk,” Laurel said decisively, crossing her arms over her chest. Elio looked down at her and frowned. “You’re sure?” he asked. This felt like a trick. Everything felt like a trick. She nodded in response. “Yeah, Elio,” she replied with a roll of the eyes. “I’m sure.”

Laurel called Mr. Holbrook back while Elio went to class and told him that Elio would be taking over the lease alone, indefinitely. She then packed a suitcase with essentials and caught a cab to Joyce’s apartment, where she immediately settled into the room Joyce’s ex-boyfriend’s sister’s best friend had resided in. Elio paid her for the furniture, despite her insistence that she didn’t want to deal with having to move it anyway. She was completely moved out by the end of the week, and Elio was alone in their shared space, staring at blank walls and zoning out in the middle of his studies.

It wasn’t until the following Monday that he woke up earlier than he had in a long time, showered, dressed, drank a cup of coffee, and began walking towards campus. Once he was outside and moving, it wasn’t hard to maintain the momentum. Down the street. Make a right. Make a left. Go straight. He walked and he walked and he walked and he walked, because if he stood still for even one moment, he would turn around and go home. If he waited for the subway, if he sat in the back of a cab, it didn’t matter; if he wasn’t being forced to look straight ahead, he would inevitably turn back. He couldn’t afford to turn back now.

By the time he arrived at the stoic building with Oliver’s office hidden inside, his forehead and arms were damp with sweat, his hair all askew. He paused to look in a bathroom mirror before locating the stairwell or some sort of receptionist, washing his hands in the basin and listening to the voice inside his head that screamed, _get out; leave while you can; this is a mistake_. He turned off the faucet with a flick of his wrist and found a dilapidated directory of offices hanging on the far wall of the foyer.

THAYER, Dr. Oliver S. Rm. 215-B

Elio let his index finger linger cautiously over the number before he tore himself away and started up the nearby stairs. They creaked with every step, aged wood gasping out in pain below his feet. His mind wandered. _Dr. Oliver S. S. Solomon, Saul, Shneur, Stephen, Sawyer, Samuel, Seth, Silas. Drs. Oliver S. and Elio R. Perlman. Drs. Oliver S. and Elio R. Thayer. Perlman-Thayer. Thayer-Perlman_. His hands were burning in anticipation.

Room 215-B was bigger than Elio expected. In the far left corner of a room of five offices, connected by a conference table, a copier, and a sizzling coffee maker, the office labeled “B” was wide and L-shaped. Oliver’s office was painted navy blue, brightened by the inclusion of a long window behind his chair. Oliver’s office had a desk flanked by short filing cabinets and a wall lined with three full bookcases. Oliver’s office had a chalkboard on one wall that listed his class schedule and his lecture topics for the week. Oliver’s office had a framed photo of the Piave memorial balanced on the windowsill. Oliver’s office was everything Elio wanted it to be. But it was empty. Elio paused in the doorway and scanned the whole room, as if he would find Oliver’s towering form upon second glance. Nothing.

“Can I help you?”

Elio swiveled. It was a student about his age, lanky and tired-looking, carrying a stack of papers with a cup of coffee balanced on top. “I’m looking for Dr. Thayer,” Elio explained, skimming around the rest of the office for any sign of golden hair. Elio’s doppelgänger wrinkled his nose. “Well, his office hours aren’t until tomorrow or Thursday, and I believe he’s giving a final for the next half-hour or so,” the guy said, shuffling past Elio into Oliver’s office, where he deposited the stack of papers and lifted the mug to his lips. Elio shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not a student. It’s more of a personal visit.” The student shrugged and moved past Elio again, settling at the conference table with a notebook and pen. “I guess you can wait inside. I’m his freshman seminar assistant, so I typically meet with him after this class, but it can wait.”

Elio raised an eyebrow at him but retreated back into Oliver’s office and perched on the edge of a chair sitting opposite the desk. It felt like a decade passed before he heard the soft tap of loafers entering the conference room outside. “You have a visitor, Dr. T,” said the teacher’s assistant. The footsteps paused. Oliver murmured something in response. Elio stood up from his seat. Should he go out to meet him? Should he turn away? There was nook inside the far wall with a small table and two chairs, not visible from the doorway. Should he hide away there? He could stand behind Oliver’s desk, surely, but that would be awkward. Elio turned and leaned his head against the wall. He could stand at the window, perhaps, and hold the framed photo of Piave. Would that be odd? How long should he say he’d been waiting? Would Oliver ask? Maybe his teaching assistant would tell him.

Freshly panicked, Elio settled against the wall and closed his eyes. _The scent of peaches. Sea salt. Waterfalls. Roma. Warm breeze from open shutters. The cold blue tile of the bathtub. Heaven_ . Elio felt Oliver’s presence in the room before he heard it. He kept his eyes closed, his heart stuttering erratically under his skin. _The silkiness of apricot juice. The rustle of old paper. Heraclitus. Green trunks. Yellow trunks. Red trunks. Billowy blue shirt._ He heard the soft one-two click of the door closing and locking. The footsteps shuffled towards him _The pulsating Psychedelic Furs. Truce. Piave. Poker. Soft grass under his knees. Icy water._ There were hands on his neck, sliding to his jaw, familiar hands, warm hands. There was hot breath over his lips. Elio clench his fists and let the word tumble from his lips, his voice soft and broken.

“Elio?”

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience with me.
> 
> all love,  
> elioliver


End file.
